How dare I enjoy the silence, the late hour, the time alone? How dare I relish the fact that Barclay isn’t barking orders at me, that he’s passed out upstairs, drugged up on pain meds?
I don’t have an answer for that, and you know what? I just don’t care. I’m going to let myself have this, guilt and all. For thefirst time today, I get to lounge around in my thick wool pajamas and socks, bundled up to stay warm since we can’t afford the heat.
My hair, pinned into a tight bun at work, spills loosely down my back instead of tugging at my roots.
Until my eyes flutter closed and exhaustion forces me to head up to my room, I resolve to cling to my happiness.
As much as I can, anyway, given the pile of mail in front of me.
It’s hard to ignore the nagging feeling that comes with it, even with a steaming cup of chamomile tea waiting for me on the counter.
How are we going to keep paying all these bills?
There’s only so much stalling I can do. Only so many hours in a day I can work. I might even get caught, fired, or sued for stealing the pills. And then what?
You wouldn’t have been better off with Duncan.
Financially, that’s true.
But money wouldn’t have mattered then, since my life would’ve been complete.
I would’ve known love. I would’ve had him. Both things would’ve been worth every struggle. Every worry over unpaid bills or a leaking roof.
I let out a low, derisive laugh. God, I’m pathetic. Pining after someone who was disgusted with the idea of me, does it get any worse than that?
“Enough. Time to go through the mail,” I declare to the empty kitchen. “That’s what I have to focus on.”
Sorting through the ads is the easiest. Their fliers are glossy and colorful, filled with all the things I can’t afford. The next few envelopes are bills. I open them up, setting them aside for later.
The envelope I saved for last sits thick and white on the counter. The county’s stamp is the only indicator of what could be in there.
A few sips of my tea, then I rip off the proverbial Band-Aid, tearing the envelope open. The papers slide out, still warm, smelling faintly of toner. Like it was printed minutes ago.
My eyebrows knit, a faint warning ringing at the back of my skull.
Who even works this late on the city council? And what couldn’t wait until morning?
I gulp around the knot in my throat.
Then I read the heading, and my stomach plummets.
EVICTION NOTICE—NONPAYMENT OF PROPERTY TAXES
“No.” I blink. I squint. With trembling hands, I lift the page closer. “No.”
No matter how manyno’sI mumble, the words stay the same. Stark black on harsh white.
EVICTION NOTICE—NONPAYMENT OF PROPERTY TAXES
A small, broken sound slips out of me, the air punched from my lungs.
We’re about to be thrown out of our home.
My brother…
Barclay isn’t well enough to move out on a minute’s notice. He can barely walk to the bathroom by himself without wincing and cursing in pain.
And even if he were mobile, where would we go?
